by Henry Green
“But I couldn’t leave you.”
“Very good of you.”
She felt a kind of clearness, she saw her way. She was much, much happier than ever. She took his arm, but he seemed so uncomfortable that she let it go again.
“What’ll you do, d’you think?”
“Stay here.”
“But you can’t always do that, you know. You’d better go away.”
“Where to?”
“But you’ll marry some day.”
“No, I’ll stay with you.”
He pressed her arm. This time she did not try to press his, he was so shy.
“And there’s your book to write.”
“Yes, my book.”
There was a pause, and then he went on:
“I tell you what, I’ll fix up that hen-run today. But then there is no rabbit wire, and it is so expensive. Oh, well.”
“They’re just as well as they are. Look, Minnie has just pounced.”
“I must go and have a drop of something.”
“Why not give it up for a bit?”
“Oh no, can’t give it up, does one good, you know.”
“Then I’ll get breakfast ready.”
He went through the kitchen and into his room while she began leisurely putting out the breakfast things. A sheet of chill winter sunlight lay on the floor, and some of it was spilled over the window frame as well. She dabbled her feet in it and it came up to her knees. In her hand was the teapot, and, in the other, half a loaf of bread. There came the sound of a cork being drawn in the next room, which sent a shiver pleasurably down her spine. It got rather dull here when he knocked off the drink. But still, it was bad for him. Turning, she put the things down on the table and then went over to the cupboard.
A cough came from the next room. Then the door opened and he came through, a faint flush over his face, and went out of doors. From outside he shouted through the window:
“It’s great today.”
And there were patches of blue sky. Oh, it was going to clear up. Was there enough milk? Yes, just. Anyhow he wouldn’t get angry, not yet awhile, at any rate. Marry? Who was there to marry? No one as far as she could see. They were all too difficult or too easy. George was only something to do, if she hadn’t had someone to think of she would have gone mad. That new milk-lorry man was so nice-looking. But she ought to stand by Father, it was easier that way. Why marry, anyway? It would all turn out right in the end.
Mrs. Donner said that the other night when the wind had risen so, a tree had blown down across the road and had prevented Mrs. Haye getting to Barwood without wetting her feet, and that was a good thing. What did she mean by writing to Father? She would like to marry John now, just to spite her. She poured milk out of the can into the teapot, and then began to wash up the plates from overnight. Father did not like eating off dirty plates, and it wasn’t really very nice either. She would have to change this water she washed everything in, it was so greasy that you couldn’t do anything with it, and it smelt rather. They might as well have some of that tinned herring. They had eaten it once too often, but still it was good.
Father was better. He hadn’t been like this in the morning for many a time. So pleasant to talk to, and he hadn’t minded about breakfast. Yes, she would stay here and help him, he needed her, and look how much better he was already. And what would they do then? You didn’t know. It was not as if he could have a living again. But he would find some job, sure to. She laid out the clean plates and put out the butter. Had a mouse or something been at it? They were devils, those vermin, they got into everything and ate all that they set eyes on. There was nothing to be done, you couldn’t do away with them, there were too many. She put down the tin of herrings with the opener and looked contentedly at the table. She called:
“Father, breakfast is ready.”
He came in slowly and sat down.
“I’m so lazy.”
“So’m I,” said she.
*
Mrs. Haye was sitting in an armchair in her sitting-room reading a volume of reminiscences that some hunting man had left behind him. Over the fireplace Greylock looked down upon her, while on the writing-table stood Choirboy’s hoof, and there were sporting prints on the walls and an Alken in the corner. But all round were masses of flowers, the air was heavy with the scent of them, for her one extravagance was the hot-house, and Weston understood flowers. This book was interestin’, she had never known that the Bolton had distemper in ’08 and mange in ’09, a most awkward time for them, and the bitch pack had been practically annihilated. Again, it appeared that in ’13, Johnson, who used to hunt hounds so marvellously, had broken an arm, and on the very next day his first whip, the man that the Aston had now, had cracked his thigh. It was an unlucky pack. They had had foot-an’-mouth for two years now. Their own pack down here was gettin’ impossible. Even the Friday country was infested with wire, which of course was young Beamish’s fault; why they hadn’t given the job to someone more experienced no one could tell, but then there was some money that went with it. And she would have to get rid of this groom of hers, Harry; he drank, there was no doubt about it, you had only to smell him. What could one do?
Mabel would be here soon, and then they could have a long talk about it all.
How dark it was getting. Putting aside the book she rang the bell. Really it was becoming most tiresome, this affair between Herbert and Mrs. Lane. All day long they were at it, she had seen them again yesterday, spooning in the back yard. And the cooking suffered in consequence, that beef had been positively raw three days ago, and there seemed to be nothing but vegetables to eat now, John had been complainin’ about it. His appetite had returned, which was splendid. Where was William? She and Mabel could really have the business out, she knew she would approve. Ah, at last.
“William, bring the lamps, please.”
The old thing had aged lately. They were all gettin’ older; and with Jennings dying like that, it was sad. Pinch retirin’ too, the garden didn’t look the same without him. But he was comfortable at home, and he had earned a rest.
There was somethin’ the matter with Annie, perhaps she was getting really crazy, and they ought to send her to a home, but the other morning when she had said to her near the rubbish heap, with such a gleam in her eye, “There will be new leaves soon,” it really was too extraordinary. And what did she mean, it wasn’t even March yet? Why were there always idiots in a village? And there was nothing one could do for them, that was the annoyin’ part about it.
Here were the lamps. Appalling it was, the way some people were installing electricity, oil was much more satisfactory. They had always had oil and always would. Electricity was so hard and bright that it was bad for your eyes.
“William, Mrs. Palmer will be in for tea today.”
She was late, and that was wrong of Mabel, she knew how it irritated her to have to wait. She needn’t have hurried so down from the village. That roof in Mrs. Cross’s cottage would have to be seen to, it was in a terrible state, she ought to have been told before. Would the next people take any trouble? But then that wasn’t settled yet.
She was restless today, she hadn’t been able to settle down to anything, this thing had been weighing on her mind so. And there were the household accounts to do, she was late with them, and they should be interesting this month. Mrs. Lane would have been going through an orgy of waste, the affair with Herbert would be sure to make her careless. They would have to take sixpence off the income tax this time, things couldn’t go on as they were, and the papers were full of it. Of course, giving this up would save money, but then there would be no flowers and no horses. So much of one would go with it. Mabel was late, late.
A motor. Ah, the Cadillac. Really, it was too bad of her, and it was not as if she ever had anything to do. Well, anyway, they could get down to business now.
The door opened.
“Mrs. Palmer.”
“My dear Emily, I’m so sorry I’m late. You see, my dear, the Cadillac
broke down on the way, so tiresome of it. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you, Mabel dear; and you?”
They lightly kissed.
“I caught a nasty chill at the Owens’ dance, and I’ve only just thrown it off. My dear, such a bore! There are nothing but draughts in that house, you know how it is. I think they might let one have one window shut, don’t you? Emily, it is nice to see you, I haven’t come across you for a week.”
“To tell you the truth, Mabel, I haven’t been about much this week. With the village and one thing and another I haven’t had a moment. I wanted to have a talk . . .”
The door opened. John came in.
“Who is it?”
“Mabel, John.”
“How are you, John?”
“Oh, is it you? I’m all right, thanks. How are things with you?”
“Well, you know how it is, dear boy, one irritating thing after another. Only this afternoon on the way here the inside of the car went wrong, so tiresome. We waited for hours while Jenkins tried to find out what was the matter. And while we were there guess who should come by at the most appalling speed, my dear, so that it was not safe for anyone.” Pause. “The young Vincent boy on his motor bike.”
“Was he going fast?”
“My dear boy, he shot by, I have never in all my life seen anything like it, you know.”
“John dear, would you mind leavin’ Mabel and me for a short time? We want to have a talk.”
“Then I shall see you at tea, Mrs. Palmer.” The door shut.
“What has happened, Emily, nothing serious, my dear?”
“Mabel, I wanted to talk over a very important matter with you. You see, it’s about John.”
“What? He is not ill again or something?”
“Let us go straight to the point. Let me collect my thoughts. You see, Mabel, it’s like this. But perhaps I had better begin at the beginning. You see, even before he went blind, I knew that he was not made for the country, you know how one can tell about one’s boy. Well, anyway, from one thing or another I saw that he was not happy down here. You see, he has never liked huntin’ or shootin’ or any of those things, and now he can’t fish. I don’t know how it is, he is not in the least like Ralph or me. Where can he have got it from? And this writing that he is so keen about, of course I encourage it, my dear, it is so good for the boy to have a hobby, but no one has ever written on either side of the family. Ralph even found letter-writing almost impossible. So that it is so difficult to understand him, dear.”
“Yes, Emily, I have always felt that, you know.”
“And then one has had girls to the house so that he might see some nice young things, but he has never taken to any of them, Mabel. There was Jane Blandair, a charming girl, but he has told me, in confidence of course, that he definitely dislikes her. My dear, I asked him why, and he said that it was everything about her. What can one do? Jane would have made such a splendid wife and mother. And of the other girls who have been, there was not one of them I would not have liked for a daughter-in-law. And he is quite a catch, isn’t he, clever and artistic, and he will have a little money. It was all very depressing, Mabel.”
“Yes, dear, I felt for you so.”
“Well, I was wretched about the whole business, and I slowly came to realize that he was not made for the country, like you or I. You see, he does not really care for the village, though he makes great efforts, poor boy. And then it is his future that matters. He gets terribly bored down here, he has no interests. He is always talking of the towns. He never actually says it, but I know he thinks we all get into grooves in the country, and so I suppose we do, I mean I personally am always fussin’ about the village, but of course he is too young to realize that one gets into a groove wherever one is. But there is his writing. That is his only interest. He has been so very brave all through this business, and he is now writing as hard as ever he did; naturally I encourage it, I think everyone should have a hobby, and I am sure you agree with me in this Mabel. But he seems to think that one can’t write books in the country. Though all the books that you and I used to read, Mabel, like Jane Austen, were written about the country. Still, he thinks that he can’t, and I have always told him to try, but it must be so different when one is blind. So what he wants is to go away, Mabel, that is what it all comes to. He had never said it, of course, but that is what he wants to do.”
“To go away, Emily? What for?”
“Well, he is young . . .”
“Yes, but we all know the wretched life they live in town, you know how it is, dancing all night and only getting up for lunch, you know how it is. I never could stand it when I was a girl. My dear, I don’t understand it.”
“I think I do. I’m his mother, you see. He needs a change.”
“Listen, Emily, why not take him to Eastbourne for a few weeks? Such air you get at Eastbourne.”
“It is not that, besides there are other things. No, he—we must go to London.”
“To London! For how long? But think of the noise. Do you mean for the winter and then come down here in the summer?”
“We could not afford it, Mabel. You see, so much of the money went in those shares which are worthless now. No, it would have to be for good.”
“My dear Emily, no, I cannot allow you to do this, you know. No. Think of the Town Council, and the Board of Guardians, what would they do without you? All it would mean is that the Walkers woman would take charge of the whole thing, Colonel Shoton is such a hopeless creature. And think of the village, Emily. Oh, you can’t go. It is probably only a passing whim of the boy’s, you know. Take him to Eastbourne to get over it, my dear. Don’t do this thing recklessly. When you and I were young we had these moments ourselves when we wanted to get away. Why even now sometimes I say to myself that it is all too much and that I was happier at Allahabad, you know how it is, only a little restlessness, my dear.”
“It’s more than that, Mabel. I’ve been so wretched about the whole thing.”
“Yes, my dear, I am so sorry for you, but don’t let the fact of you being a little over-wrought influence you to . . . Why, think of the village. You know better than I do that Mrs. Crayshaw is so busy having babies that she has absolutely no time to attend to the affairs of the village. Why, it would all be indecent and disgraceful if you went so that there was no one left to look after it. You know how it is, illegitimate babies immediately, my dear. Oh no, Emily, you cannot go. Besides, what does the boy want to do in London?”
“Yes, but you see he is artistic.”
“But, Emily, painters always go to the country for inspiration. I have never heard of a painting of a town that was any good. And there is nothing to write about in a town. Don’t let him ruin your life, Emily.”
“My duty is by him.”
“Yes, my dear, but does he know what he wants? He is only restless. And what would become of the committees and everything? And the Hospital Ball, Emily?”
“Yes.”
“And the Nursing Association, and the Women’s Institute, just when it is beginning to go so nicely, you know. Without you it would collapse. You are absolutely indispensable to its welfare!”
“Am I?”
“Now don’t be modest. Why, of course you are. Think of Mrs. Walkers on the Board of Guardians. Emily, she isn’t honest.”
“She is dangerous, that woman.”
“My dear, do you know what I heard the other day? That as a very natural result of the way she goes on and what with all the money she burns and the way she keeps that house open always, trying to get people to come to it, you know how it is, and of course no one will, she is in the hands of the moneylenders. Deeply involved.”
“Well, I don’t know whether I should altogether believe that, but it is very interestin’.”
“Isn’t it? All it means is that she will be misappropriating funds as soon as you are out of the way. And you know I’ve no head for figures.”
“Yes; well, I don’t know.”
There was a long pause while outside the night drew in softly, peering through the windows at the fire and the pools of light kept by the lamps. Mabel Palmer was lying back in her chair worn out by what she had had to say, and Mrs. Haye was looking vacantly at Greylock. Presently she roused herself.
“Shall we have tea now, Mabel?” And she got up and rang the bell.
*
“Is everything in?”
“All that I’m going to take, yes.”
“Well, I must go and see about the labels.” Mamma hurried out again.
John stood in the middle of the room, smoking a cigarette. So they were going. Lunch had been a hurried affair, he had hardly eaten he was so excited. He had a wonderful stirring in his belly, for they were going. A light feeling, a warning of change. They had packed all that was being taken. When they got there Uncle Edward had lent them his house till they should find one for themselves. Everything was packed and arranged. There was only the train now. It was nice of Uncle Edward. He sat down on his trunk.
Was there anything more dreadful than waiting to be off? When there was nothing left to do, and you were forced to sit about and wait? He did not dare to walk for the positions of everything had changed, chairs were upside-down in the middle of what had once been a path, there was a large packing-case with protruding nails in what had been the passage between the sofa and the fireplace in the Hall, and he had tripped over a carpet which was rolled up suddenly for half its length. Desolation brooded over each room, and there were clouds of dust driving along here and there on draughts. The flowers had been removed so that the house was cold and hollow. It was changed.
For of course they were moving. London was only six hours off now. Life would be quite different when they got there. Barwood would be wiped out, and he was going to begin again, on the right path this time. Think of all that one would write when one got to London, great things were going to happen there. He would hunt out B. G. and Seymour; they would introduce him to all the amusing people. How nice it was to be going.
He had thought that yesterday was never going to end. Sitting here all the afternoon and all the evening, with William moving about painfully, stacking what he was to take away in one corner, and what was to be left and sold in another. Mamma had shot in and then shot out again continually, and her voice had been breathless at the number of things left to do, with a high note of anxiety whistling through her sentences. Ever since that day three months ago when she had sent him away that Mabel might deliberate alone with her, the high note had pierced through her conversation. Mabel had come many times since then, almost every day, and lately her voice had grown hard towards him, as if she thought that he was ruining Mamma’s life. But after all he had not made the suggestion first, it had been Mamma a month back who had said quite suddenly, “We are going to London,” and he “To London?” “Will you like that, dear?” Everything inside him had been beating, beating. It was good of her. He had a sinking feeling now, the whole thing was almost too good to be true.